


Corporeally Challenged

by Triangulum



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Ghost Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Medium Peter, Pre-Slash, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 15:09:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16477883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Triangulum/pseuds/Triangulum
Summary: One of the worst things about being a ghost, besides the whole being dead thing, are the goddamn ghost hunters. Stiles doesn't know why his spirit stuck around when an ex-con out for revenge had burst into their home, killing him and his father, but every amateur and "professional" paranormal investigator nearby had flocked to the house desperate for a chance to see the Stilinski boy's ghost.





	Corporeally Challenged

**Author's Note:**

> This just kinda flopped out while watching Buzzfeed Unsolved. Happy Halloween!

One of the worst things about being a ghost, besides the whole being dead thing, are the goddamn ghost hunters. Stiles doesn't know why his spirit stuck around when an ex-con out for revenge had burst into their home, killing him and his father, but every amateur and "professional" paranormal investigator nearby had flocked to the house desperate for a chance to see the Stilinski boy's ghost.

Tonight is one of those nights. A couple of guys with a video camera have sneaked into the house, bringing with them all their bullshit toys that they think will help them see a ghost. If they have a spirit box, Stiles is going to lose his shit.

He ignores them for the most part. If they come into a room he's in, he just leaves, not wanting to deal with them, but eventually they stand in the living room, the perfect place for their voices to carry through the house when they shout.

"I hear you were a musician. Can you play something for us?" one of them calls out.

"No, fuck off," Stiles says, but as usual, no one can hear him. He hates whoever started that rumor. He had a trumpet for like a year in elementary school, but that's it. The internet is great for helping bullshit travel.

"Do you like opera?" the shorter man asks.

"No, oh my god, I'm so fucking sick of opera. Whoever said that should die. No, then they'd be stuck with me, fuck," Stiles says. He's sitting on the ground where the sofa used to be, leaning against the wall. 

(He never understood that, how he can lean against the wall and not fall through, but he can walk through walls when he wants to. That's the real ghost science you guys should be studying, buddy.)

"We brought some to play for you," the first man says, pulling out his phone.

"WHY," Stiles says, covering his ears. "What did I do in a past life to deserve this shit?"

They continue on for the next hour, playing Pavarotti and selections from Tosca, something Stiles now knows because everyone and their goddamn brother comes in to play him opera. 

"Dude, he might not know he's dead," one of them says. "Sometimes ghosts don't know. They're just stuck in a loop of their life, ya know?"

"I noticed I'm dead, fuck face," Stiles says.

It doesn't matter how hard he shouts, they never hear him. He'd tried at the beginning, desperate to get someone's attention, someone who could help him figure out why he's stuck here. His dad had moved on to wherever you go when you die, happy to see Claudia again, but Stiles is stuck here and he really, really doesn't want to be.

Stiles is grateful when they leave, excited about all the creaks they heard that "prove" ghosts' existence (it's the foundation settling, it's an old house). He's just tired. So. so tired. He would give anything to be able to leave, but he's tethered here, can't make it farther than the front gate. He's tried, many times. He's tried to follow Scott when he's come to visit, tried to follow a few of the ruder ghost hunters that have come, but it's like running into a soft, pillowy wall when he tries.

It's been almost five years since he died and he's starting to lose time. He drifts through the empty house, no one wanting to buy it with the double homicide attached to it, not realizing he's zoning out until suddenly it's night again, and he doesn't know how many days have passed. It's scaring him. Terrifying him, actually. He's seen Supernatural and watched a lot of horror movies, okay? He knows that when you start losing your grip on reality, that's when you become the Bad Ghost. And he feels his time is coming.

* * *

Cora has never understood the appeal of haunted hoses, but maybe that's because she's a werewolf. She's seen the supernatural up close and in person, and it never likes to be poked with a stick, but all her friends are going to spend the night at the Stilinski house on a dare, and well, it's better than being home with Laura in a _mood_ over her college applications and Derek sniping with Peter.

Cora doesn't know if the place is actually haunted. It doesn't really have a creepy vibe once she's inside, but she supposes her measure of creepiness is different from the average teenager who doesn't turn furry on the full moon. 

Her friends are having fun though, walking through the dusty rooms, jumping when they see their reflections in a mirror, screaming when they hear a creak in the floorboards. Peter would be rolling his eyes, never impressed with those who tried to poke at the supernatural then cry when it snaps at them. 

After a few hours of scaring themselves and convincing themselves they've seen a ghost (sure), they all bunk down in their sleeping bags on the living room floor. Greg and Lindsey have zipped their sleeping bags together and are giggling, sharing long kisses that make Cora want to gag. Nothing sexier than a decrepit old house. Kim is on Cora's other side, scrolling through her phone. Cody is lying perpendicular to them, already halfway asleep. Cora sighs and rolls over, stuffing her earbuds in. Might as well try to sleep.

Cora manages to sleep for a few hours before she wakes up having to pee. Grumbling, she gets up and makes her way to the backyard, because of course that house that's been vacant for five years doesn't have running water. She pees behind a tree, something she tries not to make a wolf/dog joke about, before coming back inside. She's just walking in the back door when a flashlight Cody had left on the kitchen counter comes flying at her, slamming into the wall a few feet from her head.

Cora's frozen in shock, staring at the dent in the wall then down to the flashlight by her feet. She's not afraid exactly; according to her uncle, ghosts usually can't move shit like that and if they can, they don't have the energy to do it for very long. She's stared down hunters and alphas and wendigos, a low-powered ghost isn't going to scare her off, but she is curious.

"What was that?" Kim squeaks from the next room.

"I tripped over the flashlight," Cora says, picking it up and bringing it back to the living room with her.

"Oh, okay good," Kim says. 

Kim settles back down to sleep under her pile of blankets as Cora slides into her sleeping bag. Kim's out in minutes, but Cora's awake, twirling the flashlight in her hands and thinking. She remembers Stiles. He was a few years younger than Derek and volunteered at the library at lot. She'd see him when Derek or Laura took her to get books every week. He was always nice, if a little weird. If it's him stuck here, he doesn't deserve it.

Actual hauntings are rare, and Cora really hadn't expected this to be a real one. Peter always says most ghosts don't want to be here, that they're tortured and hurting souls. She feels like shit for walking through this house, his living prison, with her friends while they mocked and tried to scare themselves in some pre-Halloween crappy tradition.

She doesn't get much more sleep that night. She wants to call out and say she'll try to help, but sometimes false hope is worse than being hopeless, and if she can't deliver...well, she doesn't want to be responsible for that.

Cora leaves Cody to drive everyone home the next morning, saying she has a family thing she has to get to. They're used to her having "family things" that are vague and don't push her to elaborate. She speeds home, hoping that Peter isn't out. She's in rumpled clothes, her hair up in a messy bun, and she would kill for a shower after sleeping on the dusty floor, but she wants to talk to him first.

Peter is in his study, reading over a case a prosecutor friend of his asked him to look over (Peter may be a defense attorney, but his mind is coveted by lawyers on both sides). He glances up when she knocks, raising his brows.

"You're home early," he says. 

"I'm not Laura, I know how to get up before noon," Cora says. She takes it as permission to come in (she would know if he wanted her gone) and closes the study door behind her. There's something of a rule between them, cutting the bullshit they pull with other family members, so in the interest of frankness, Cora plops into the chair across from his desk and says, "So, the Stilinski house is haunted."

Peter looks skeptical, which she supposes is fair. It's been a rumor for years, but no one has had concrete proof. 

"Is that where you and your friends were last night?" Peter asks.

"Apparently the ghost hunting trend has made its way to Beacon Hills High," Cora says. "Look, we both know 99% of 'hauntings' are bullshit, but I saw a flashlight fly across the kitchen last night, and I wasn't dreaming."

Peter looks surprised at that. She hopes he believes her. He should, she was never one to make up crap or dream up stories like Laura and Derek. He doesn't ask if she's sure, which she appreciates, as if she'd say uh, you know what, maybe not.

"Did anything else happen?" Peter asks.

"No," Cora says. "They heard creaks and stuff, but normal old house creaks. Peter, will you please take a look?"

"I don't do medium work anymore," Peter says. 

Cora fights off the irritated groan she wants to let out. "Well will you at least come look? You don't have to communicate or whatever, just see if I'm right? Then contact one of your spooky buddies to come and do their thing and help him move on or whatever," she says.

Peter studies her silently for a few moments before asking, "Why is this so important to you?"

Cora looks down, shrugging. She doesn't know, really. "I can't stop thinking about how horrible it would be to be stuck forever where you and your dad were murdered," she says. "Stiles was always nice to me, even if Laura and Derek were being dicks. It's not fair if he's trapped there."

Peter sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. And she knows, okay? She knows he doesn't like to do medium work anymore, she knows how draining it is to be constantly dealing with spirits, be they benign or evil. She knows that after the demon thing in San Francisco that he'd sworn off anything spirit-related, _she knows_. But she doesn't ask Peter for much, and something about this is driving her. Stiles is alone and it's not fair to him.

"I'll think about it," Peter finally says.

It's not a yes, but it's not a no, either. Peter isn't like her parents who say they'll think about it as a cop out for no. If Peter isn't going to do something, he'll tell you. When he says he'll think about it, he means it. Cora sags in the chair in relief.

"Thank you," she says. 

"I haven't agreed yet," Peter says.

"I know, but you're at least rolling it around," she says.

"Consider it your Christmas present for the next five years," Peter says. 

"Ugh, rude."

* * *

Stiles only knows it's Halloween because of the shitty teens in shitty costumes. He doesn't know what happened to creative integrity or originality, but a black hoodie and a hockey mask is fucking lazy and they should feel bad. They break into the house around 6:30, just after the sun goes down. 

This seems to happen every year. Some super cool tough kids think it's fun to break into the haunted Stilinski house and spray paint dicks everywhere. Stiles had been livid the first year, because how fucking dare they come in and vandalize where he and his dad died? How dare they write "PENIS LOL" over the spot where he'd bled out?

It's hard to care anymore, though. They're not going to stop. He might as well resign himself to this fate. He's lucky they only really come on Halloween now, the new mall by the skate park a much easier destination for tagging and mischief (or so he overhears). 

He considers screaming, working up enough energy to throw something again like he had to the girl a few nights ago (he really hadn't mean to do that, he hadn't realized anyone was in the house and apparently startling him is enough to gather enough energy to make things move), but it really isn't worth it. It'll scare them off, but the new influx of stories will bring even more paranormal fanatics to his house and he just really doesn't want to deal with that. 

Stiles watches as they kick holes in the already crumbling walls. He watches them spray a pentagram and 666 (though the one they draw is more commonly used in witchcraft instead of Satanism, the dumbasses). He watches them shotgun shitty bear, spilling all over where the floor is stained from his blood. And it's hard for him to care.

Headlights shine through the windows and the teens spook, grabbing their bags and running out. A few seconds later, Scott is running in through the front door, chasing after the straggler who'd stopped to grab the remaining beers. 

"Get the hell out! What's wrong with you?" Scott shouts, throwing a half-empty beer can after their retreating backs. Scott sighs and turns around, taking in the damage. 

Stiles' heart is aching. He doesn't know how long it's been since Scott's been here, but he looks a lot older than he did last time. The softness around his face has faded, his baby fat stretched out. He looks like a proper adult, something Stiles never will, stuck in the specter of his 20-year-old body. 

Scott used to be by a lot after Stiles and his dad were murdered. He'd heard the rumors of it being haunted and even though he wasn't sure if he believed it, he still came and talked to the empty rooms on the off chance that Stiles was listening. He'd told Stiles all about his internship, about how he officially graduated and is a veterinarian. He'd told him about the sweet girl he'd met named Kira. 

He'd told him he was moving away because Kira got her dream job in San Francisco. And Stiles had been alone again.

"I'm sorry I haven't been here in a while," Scott says, kicking an empty beer can aside. He sits heavily on the floor where the sofa used to be, leaning against the wall. "Kira's been really busy at work. I got a job five minutes from our new house and it's great, but the vet left a month after I started so I kind of took over and have been running it since."

Stiles sinks to the ground across from Scott, sitting cross-legged. He can still cry as a ghost, he'd found that out fast (that defies the laws of science but whatever), and knows he's going to lose the fight against tears soon.

Scott is silent for a few minutes, playing with the bracelet he's wearing (a friendship bracelet Stiles made him in 3rd grade), before saying, "Look, I don't know if you're really here. I kind of hope you're not, because that's not fair to you if you are. But if you're here, I want you to know...I asked Kira to marry me." 

Stiles sucks in a breath. He's happy for Scott, really, he is. But he's miserable that he won't get to be there, that he won't get to be his best man like they'd planned since they were eleven years old. He's miserable that Scott gets to grow up and move on and move away while Stiles is stuck here. 

"I just...don't want you to think I've forgotten you," Scott says. "But I asked Isaac to be my best man."

And that...that hurts like a punch to the gut. He knows it's not fair, Scott deserves to have his friend there, he doesn't need to hold on to Stiles as desperately as Stiles is holding onto the memory of him, but still, he can't fight the emotional reaction at that. Isaac had never liked Stiles and Stiles had never liked him right back. It's not fair that he's upset at being replaced, he's _dead_ , but still. 

"Congratulations," Stiles says, forcing his voice to be cheery even though Scott can't hear it. 

Scott talks a bit more about Kira, how bright and bubbly she is. He tells Stiles how he proposed on a beach at sunset. He tells him how Melissa is still dating Chris Argent, which is super weird, but he's happy that she's happy.

"They think I should stop coming," Scott says softly. "They think it's not healthy. I'm not...I'm not saying I'm going to listen to them, but I might not be here as often."

Stiles has lost the war against crying, tears streaming down his face. He watches forlornly as Scott stands and walks to the front door. His best friend since childhood. He stares at the empty room and sighs, shaking his head, and says goodbye.

Stiles sits in silence for a long time, trying to remember his breathing exercises from when he was alive, but what's the point? He's not alive, it's not like he can hyperventilate and pass out. He can't even freak out properly, can't do anything because he's chained to this goddamn house where he was murdered right in front of his father's eyes. 

Stiles screams, kicking out at the leftover beer can. Fueled by his rage and frustration, his foot connects, sending the can flying across the room. Good, it's been a long time since he's been able to have a proper tantrum. Stiles seizes the empty spray paint cans, throwing them across the room as he screams. He slams his fists against the walls, watching in sick satisfaction as the plaster dents, though he feels no pain. Not alive, no bones to break.

Stiles screams until there's nothing left in him but tears, collapsing to his knees in the middle of the living room. There's nothing left for him here, and he can't leave. 

There's a scrape against the floor and Stiles looks up quickly, eyes snapping to the man standing in the doorway. His eyes are right on Stiles. Not looking through him, right at him. Stiles swallows hard, daring to hope.

"You can see me," Stiles says. 

"Yes," the man says, nodding. He looks familiar to Stiles, like he's seen him a few times before, but his memories from before dying are cloudier than ever, only the strong relationships really remaining in his mind. "My name is Peter Hale."

"Are you here to help or hurt, Peter?" Stiles asks. He doesn't look like another ghost hunter, but you never know. "If it's to hurt, there's really not much more you can do, dude." Stiles doesn't move, because he knows if he does, he'll be running to Peter, to the first person to see him in over five years, and he isn't willing to scare him off.

"I'm not here to hurt you," Peter says, walking into the room. There's a sort of grace about him that makes Stiles' mind scream _other_. He sits in front of where Stiles is kneeling on the ground, uncaring that his jeans are getting dusty. "But I don't know if I can help."

Stiles' shoulders sag and he hangs his head. It was foolish to hope. He rubs a tired hand over his face. Always so tired, never able to sleep.

"I don't think you're dead," Peter says.

Stiles looks up at him incredulously. "Oh, I'm dead. I am transparent, bodiless, and very dead. There was a funeral, I saw the obit."

"Your body is dead, but your soul isn't," Peter says.

"Isn't that what a ghost is?" Stiles says. "Yeah, I noticed my soul is sticking around."

"No, it's not the same," Peter says. "I'm not sure how to explain it to you, but I know ghosts. You feel different."

"Okay, well that's frustratingly vague," Stiles says. "Not a ghost hunter, but you have ghost _feelings_."

To his surprise, Peter smirks at that. "I was told you were a snarky little shit," he says. "Glad to see that was accurate."

"Who told you that?" Stiles asks.

"My niece. I believe you threw a flashlight at her," Peter says.

Stiles winces. "That was an accident. She scared me."

"A 17-year-old girl coming back from peeing scared a ghost," Peter says flatly.

"Dude, if I could punch you right now, I so would," Stiles says.

Peter pinches the bridge of his nose, but Stiles thinks he's trying not to smile. "A ghost who calls me dude, fantastic," Peter says. He looks back up at Stiles. "I can't promise I can help you move on. And I can't promise I can get you a new body. But I'm going to try."

For the second time tonight, Stiles is blinking back stupid ghost tears. "You get me a new body and the first thing I'm doing is kissing you right on the mouth, just so you know," Stiles says.

"Is that a threat or a promise?" Peter asks, corner of his lip quirking.

"You decide."

When Peter leaves, Stiles feels true, genuine hope for the first time in years.

* * *

Peter hadn't expected Stiles. He doesn't know why (and there are dozens of researchers trying to figure it out), but there aren't very many modern ghosts. There's one theory that as education on the supernatural became more widely available, the fear around the unknown lessened and less spirits linger after death. Peter thinks that's horseshit, but he doesn't exactly have a better theory. 

Stiles is unexpected. He isn't hundreds of years old, he isn't lost to madness yet, though the pain rolling off of him was palpable, making Peter ache. There's a reason he's ignoring the medium part of himself. But beyond that, Stiles feels different than a standard, run of the mill ghost. He's more real, more present. Most ghosts feel like an echo rattling around inside his skull, but Stiles feels _real_ , like a person who just happens to be corporeally challenged.

It tickles Peter's curiosity, and even if he didn't want to help Stiles, the curiosity would be enough for him to look into it. There are rarely challenges and mysteries for Peter anymore, and this one has him salivating. 

Peter digs into the Stilisnkis' deaths, finding nothing of note other than the violence of it, then the family history, looking for anything that might explain Stiles sticking around. Sometimes curses can mess with the afterlife, sometimes certain supernatural creatures can, too, but Peter finds nothing to indicate that Stiles is any kind of fae or anything other than a baseline human.

Then Peter looks a little closer at Claudia Stilinski, something niggling at him. There isn't a lot about her, but after asking around a few of his shadier contacts, he finds out that Claudia Stilinski was born Claudia Bane, of the Bane Coven. She was the daughter of one of the most powerful witches in this century. Things start clicking into place after that.

"I think it was something to do with your mother," Peter says to Stiles a few weeks later. 

Peter's taken to doing what research he can in the old Stilinski house to study Stiles, to keep him company (he truly is so lonely, enough that even Peter's icy heart hurts for him), and because despite himself, Peter actually _likes_ him. He likes the biting sarcasm, the wit. He likes the way Stiles' brain makes connections. He likes Stiles' reactions when he catches him up on things that have happened in the five years he's been dead.

Stiles seems a little out of it and lost sometimes, like he's drifting, but the longer he speaks with Peter, the shorter those periods become. Peter's grateful because it's alarming when Stiles' eyes are unfocused, like he doesn't realize Peter is there. He tries not to, but Stiles clings to Peter like a tether. He's good at hiding it, but Peter can see how devastating it is to Stiles every time he goes home, like he's expecting Peter not to walk back through the front door again. Peter's heart breaks, which is ridiculous. It must just be sore for disuse. 

"What about her?" Stiles asks, voice tight. Peter's learned to tread lightly around the subject of Stiles' parents, but there are some things that just can't be glossed over.

"Did you ever meet her side of the family? The Banes?" Peter asks. He's sitting in an old armchair he'd brought in a week ago, refusing to spend all his time sitting on the dusty floor.

"No, she never really talked about them. She said they didn't get along and she'd tell me why when I was older. But, you know," Stiles says, shrugging.

"The Banes are a very powerful coven of witches," Peter says slowly, watching Stiles' face to gauge his reaction. He'd taken to the idea of werewolves easily enough, so he isn't too worried. "If she were a witch, and I believe she was, and she had cast a protective enchantment on you, it might be tying you to the earth."

"My mom pulled a Lily Potter on me?" Stiles asks.

"I cannot accurately express my hate of you right now," Peter says. "But yeah, more or less."

"Huh...okay, so does that help?" Stiles asks. "Can you do something with that?"

"Yes," Peter says. "This I can work with."

* * *

Stiles is no witch doctor but he's pretty sure the shit Peter's about to pull is some high level mojo. We're talking Goblet of Fire, Wormtail making Voldemort a new body levels of magic. Stiles is trying really hard not to make that comparison right now. The spell Peter and his warlock friend, Alex are going to try involves a lot of Latin, what looks like a giant Voodoo doll, and a sacrificial goat (he's going to be very unpopular with PETA after this).

"It's not a Voodoo doll," Peter says again. "Don't mix religions, you're better than that."

Stiles rolls his eyes. He knows, he did a research paper on the history of Voodoo when he was in high school, but making dumb jokes is all that's keeping him from vibrating out of his spectral skin in nervousness. This is the best chance they have at getting Stiles firmly back in the land of the living. 

Peter had consulted with his warlock friend, a shaman, a priestess or two in New Orleans, and they'd all agreed that it's either this or try to break the enchantment that's binding Stiles here to help him move on. Since they have no idea what enchantment his mom cast, they all agree that that's a risky route. Stiles has to admit, anything that lets him live again, lets him see Scott get married, maybe drag Peter out for a drink, is good with him.

"Fine, the large, stuffed, faceless doll," Stiles says. "Walk me through how the body pillow is going to be my body."

"It has to do with magical transference," Alex the warlock says. "The life force of goat will be transferred to your new body, making it ready to live and breathe. You supply the soul and we pull you into the body."

"Won't I look like a six-foot Raggedy Anne?" Stiles asks.

"Its form is like clay ready to be formed," Peter says. "It'll take the shape of you."

"It...sounds too good to be true, honestly," Stiles says.

"Well, we're killing a goat if that helps," Alex says. 

"Is it bad that it actually does?" Stiles says. "If it were all sunshine and rainbows and tap your heels together three times, that'd be sketchy as hell."

"It's obviously a lot more involved than what Alex is saying," Peter says. "I just don't feel like listening to a graduate level class on magical theory at the moment. You're stalling."

Stiles sighs. "Yeah, okay," he says. "Let's do it."

He doesn't ask what will happen to him if this doesn't work. He isn't sure he wants to know the answer. Peter lights tall pillar candles in a circle around the blank doll while Alex draws symbols Stiles doesn't recognize into the wood. Stiles looks away from the goat when Peter's claws pop out ( _CLAWS_. Stiles still has so many questions.) and he's thankful he did. The goat's blood seeps into the circle, pooling around the doll. 

Peter takes his place next to Alex, staring at Stiles for a long moment before looking down at the book in Alex's hands, starting to chant with him. It starts slowly, so slowly that Stiles isn't sure he's feeling it at first. Something in his chest feels like it's being pulled and squeezed, pulling him toward the doll in the middle of the floor. It doesn't look nearly as funny as it did before, not now that it has runes painted over it, the whole thing covered in goat's blood.

Stiles gasps as the magic yanks him forward, a tingling spreading from his chest out to his limbs. He's...freezing. He hasn't felt temperature in years. He looks up at Peter with wide eyes. Stiles doesn't think he's imagining the hopeful look in his eyes. Peter's eyes are the last thing he sees before he's flung into the doll and everything goes black.

Stiles wakes with a choked gasp, hands flying up to his throat and fuck, he hurts. He _hurts_! He hasn't felt pain in years. His eyes fly open and he doesn't even care that his lungs are burning, his muscles and joints aching because he has muscles and joints again! The room is blurry but he can see he isn't transparent. The figure in front of him swims into focus and it's Peter, kneeling next to him, looking concerned.

"Stiles?" Peter asks.

"Yeah," Stiles says. His voice is like gravel and he clutches his throat, groaning in pain. It's like the worst strep throat ever. 

"Things will be sore for a while," Alex says from over Peter's shoulder. "Your body is basically brand new and settling in."

"But it worked?" Stiles croaks.

Peter cracks a smile. "You're covered in goat blood and are going to wearing those runes like tattoos for the rest of your life," Peter says. He takes Stiles' hand in his and Stiles sobs. He can touch him. He can feel the warmth, proof that he's in a solid body once again. "But yes. It worked."

Stiles doesn't think, just lurches forward, throwing himself at Peter. His body is weak and sluggish, but it's okay because Peter catches him, letting him hug as tightly as he can. Peter's solid in his arms, the first person he's touched since he was thrown down by the back of the neck and shot. Peter doesn't say anything about the blood probably smeared all over him now, though Stiles is sure he's already planning to burn the clothes he's in. Which, speaking of...

"...Uh, can you get me some pants?"

He still wants to kiss Peter, but he'd rather not be naked for it first.

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on [ tumblr ](http://www.hotpinklizard.tumblr.com).


End file.
